


A War Hero Imagines Love

by interstellarcadence



Category: Clue | Cluedo - All Media Types
Genre: listen i have no excuse for this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-02
Updated: 2017-03-02
Packaged: 2018-09-27 22:14:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10053761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/interstellarcadence/pseuds/interstellarcadence
Summary: Billiard room. Lead pipe. Colonel Mustard. The former war hero paces, bouncing the stiff rod from blocky hand to blocky hand. The body crucified on the pool table makes no such movement. He has seen blood on the battlefield many times. He has never seen blood on a billiard table before. A deep breath breaks the stillness of the air, and with an exhale the Colonel sets the pipe on the bookshelf. There’s a moment of stillness.





	

Billiard room. Lead pipe. Colonel Mustard. The former war hero paces, bouncing the stiff rod from blocky hand to blocky hand. The body crucified on the pool table makes no such movement. He has seen blood on the battlefield many times. He has never seen blood on a billiard table before. A deep breath breaks the stillness of the air, and with an exhale the Colonel sets the pipe on the bookshelf. Everything is quiet.

Impulsively, he picks the pipe back up again. His polished shoes make no click as they continue journeying what feels like miles of carefully maintained carpet. His brow furrows when he sees the drip of blood on his shoe, as if somehow he had buried himself so deep in thought he forgot he had just killed someone. He chases the thought back to the corpse.

There’s no substantial amount of blood. Only a bloody nose and a large, rectangular bruise rests on the corpse’s forehead, the sole clue she’s not simply asleep. Carefully, he scoops her up and walks towards the door. He pauses in front of the oak. Footsteps. He doesn’t proceed into the hall, he turns, and starts his steady, slow pace  instead towards the window.

The moonlight shines faintly in, competing with the electric lamps for control of the room. He looks at how her porcelain skin is cast with a blue glow. The colonel has to force his eyes to look elsewhere. He looks up and out to the glass. The wind howls through the trees, tall, dark silhouettes bending to the air. He pushes against the window pane and steps into the night, still cradling the body in his arms.

The wind brushes against his skin and dances with her hair. He brushes it out of her face, being careful around the bruise. He has to pause. But then he continues on. His shoes interrupt the forming dew, crushing blades of grass effortlessly, disrupting  the moonlight stillness. A willow looms overhead. He spies a crimson bird. Something causes him to dimly smile.

He gently lays her down underneath its drooping branches. He doesn’t grab a shovel. He doesn’t start digging. He lays down next to her. His eyes trace the soft features of her face, memorizing the curves and the angles, the highlights and the shadows. He looks at her like a gallery piece on show at the Louvre. He’s never been to the Louvre. 

He continues on like that for a while. Watching the moonlight drip over the willow branches, letting her silky brown hair and crimson lips sink into his memory. He seems like he’s dreaming, but his eyes keep fluttering open. After the sky changes to a slightly lighter hue he slowly rises, starting a funeral procession back towards the still open window.

He climbs back in again. The room is stagnant, contrasting the night scene. But not quite as still as her. He silently picks up the lead pipe once more, eyes searching the room. They settle on a weathered chair and his feet follow. Hands marred from his time on the battlefield delicately pick up the loose cushion, and he carefully sets the pipe inside. He guides the cushion back down. 

With the lack of noise he made, one could assume he floated all the way back up to his room for the last few hours until the morning. It was hard to tell in the complete darkness, but he didn’t sleep. Not even doze off. He studied the ornate ceiling design as if it was her. He waited. He waited. He waited.

He heard voices. Coming from downstairs in the manor. The others had gathered for breakfast. He fought against gravity to rise from his stillness, straightening his tie, slicking his gray hair back, and descending the stairs with all the authority of a war hero. He marched to the dining hall with a pleasant smile, greeted by all the other guests.

“Colonel Mustard! How simply divine to see you!” Mrs. Peacock’s voice was shrill. It seemed to blend with the shrieking tea kettle. “Have you seen Ms. Scarlet? We thought perhaps she was with you.”

His smile flickered for a moment. Professor Plum looked up, hanging on Colonel Mustard’s silence.  Mustard looked sharply at Plum. “No I have not seen her.” 

Professor Plum returned to his breakfast. Throughout the whole meal he barely talked. He pushed around his eggs with his fork, periodically glancing towards Scarlet’s empty place. Plum treated his day with much of the same silence. Peacock asked him several times if he was alright. Plum simply would nod, shrug, and blame it on being up most of the night searching for Scarlet. When they found the body, Peacock, in tears, ran up to Mustard and apologized for his loss. 


End file.
